


One Life To Live [But We're Doing It Wrong]

by non_tiembo_mala



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Canon Divergent, Codependent brothers, First Kiss, Fix-It, M/M, POV Dean, Pining, Pre-Series, Schmoop, Stanford Era, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-03 18:56:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4111468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/non_tiembo_mala/pseuds/non_tiembo_mala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is not dealing well with Sam having left for Stanford. Drunkenness ensues. And then some healing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Life To Live [But We're Doing It Wrong]

**Author's Note:**

> Sam is 18 and Dean is 22.
> 
> This is what happens when I'm moody. I write angsty Sam and Dean things and then let the boys patch themselves up with their love and let it make me feel better. Enjoy.
> 
> Unbeta'd.
> 
> The title is taken from the song 'Brother Down' by Sam Roberts Band.

Dean was smashed. He was well and truly drunk, without a doubt the occasion a strong contender for the most drunk he’d ever been. Sam had been gone almost two months. _Two months_. Dean had stopped being angry weeks ago and was trying to run away from other feelings entirely. He hadn’t heard so much as a peep from his little brother; the same little brother who’d shadowed him for eighteen years and then seemingly out of nowhere and without warning decided to piss off to Stanford. He left Dean alone with their father who, not long after, turned over the keys to the Impala and sent Dean packing to start hunting on his own as though Sam was the only glue that had been holding their tiny family together.

It’s not like Dean had never left Sam alone at a random motel for a few weeks at a time while he and John went off on some hunt; it wasn’t like John had never sent Dean off to do something on his own before, either. Dean had never _liked_ leaving Sam but it was always a given that he’d have him to come home to, which somehow made it bearable. He’d call him, too, sometimes every day they were apart, just to ask about his day and check in on him, make sure he was eating enough and keeping up with his training (even though he knew one of the only things Sam enjoyed about John and Dean being away was being able to devote all his time to studying like the nerd he was, and secretly Dean was glad he got those opportunities, too).

This was different though. Almost two months without so much as a text from his brother, a couple weeks on his own without his dad, and Dean was in place he’d never found himself before. He couldn’t bring himself to think much on John, who had generally just been sending him links to articles to point him in the next direction whenever he called to say he’d finished a job. Sam, on the other hand, he couldn’t _stop_ thinking about. At least when he was focused on a job he had that to bury himself in, but his most recent job was done and, even more unsettling, John had told him to take the night off and he’d get back to him tomorrow. Dean tried to sleep. He knew he needed it. He was so strung out and he was more on edge after hanging up with John facing the prospect of an evening to himself than he had been the whole time he was hunting the poltergeist he just salted and burned, and that was not done without earning himself a couple bruised ribs. Sleep refused to come so Dean did the only other thing he could think of and found himself a dive, made his way through a bottle of whiskey three fingers at a time.

A part of him knew when he hauled himself - still fully dressed and frustrated - from his motel bed with a mind to get to the nearest bar that the night was going to end up here. He was aware now that he wasn’t seeing straight anymore and he was fairly certain he couldn’t stand up all the way either. When it was finally last call, the bartender tried to talk him into a cab and Dean just stumbled - _really_ , stumbled - past him with a glare and went out into the night. It was crisp and chilly - it was late October in Stillwater, NV, after all - but Dean couldn’t tell through the whiskey-glow and his leather jacket, only dimly registering the swirl of his breath as it puffed out in front of him.

It took Dean easily twice as long to walk back from the bar to his motel down the street as it had taken him to get there in first place and it was entirely possible he ended up on his hands and knees on the side of the road at least once before finding himself in the parking lot. He managed to get to his room and let his forehead fall forward to support himself on the door while he tried to dig the key out of his pocket and fumble it into the lock. He staggered as the door opened away from him and threw a hand out to catch himself on the frame. The room was dark but the lights from the parking lot spilled in from behind him and illuminated the salt line he just disrupted on the floor and the ends of the two double beds, his duffel open at the foot of the one closest to him and the covers drawn back from when he’d attempted to sleep. The other bed was as pristine as the day he’d booked the room, the top cover still tucked around the pillows that were hidden underneath it. His chest tightened. _Sam_.

The sight of it there made his heart ache and his mind swim (though the whiskey definitely helped with the swimming). His breath caught in his chest and he staggered again though he hadn’t tried to move. Everything about this was wrong. It was so close to being his life but without Sam next to him it all felt so hollow. Even worse was how Dean could only imagine Sam, his skin dark and tan from the California sun, surrounded by new friends - smart, like him - who made him happier than his family, than Dean; Dean’s stomach was churning, filled with both a familiar alcoholic burn and the horrible understanding that Sam was his whole world and all he did was hold Sam back and make him miserable, tried to trap in a life that he wanted nothing to do with. _That he wanted nothing to do with Dean_. Staring glassy eyed at the two beds from the threshold, he couldn’t do it; Dean couldn’t force his legs to move in that direction and bring him into the wrongness of the space he’d never shared with his brother. Instead, almost without conscious thought, he unsteadily made his way to the Impala where it was parked behind him. He crawled into the back seat and curled up there, mimicking the way he and Sam used to take turns curled up with their heads pillowed on each others’ thighs when they were growing up together on the road.

As Dean let his face rub into the worn vinyl seat, all the familiar smells managed to overpower the heavy booze-scent trapped in his mouth and they cut right through him. Maybe his drunkenness was helping him to imagine it but he could swear there were even traces of Sam, the faint scent of sweat and Old Spice and cheap detergent and - despite occupying the most familiar space in his life, the Impala - Dean was suddenly, overwhelmingly _homesick_. He was homesick for Sam. _Sammy_. Without his brother even the car felt strange, and Dean was loosely aware he was coming apart at the seams but too drunk to care or try to hold himself together.

He let his hand search his pockets for his cell phone and he flipped it open, struggling to hold it above his face and squinting through his inebriation and watery eyes to see the screen. He wasn’t surprised to find there was still nothing from Sam but he was too stripped bare at the moment to fight the feelings of hurt and disappointment. He let his hand with the phone, still open, come down to his heaving chest while his other came up to rub at his eyes where the tears were welling up. Dean was a mess. He was panting with the effort of trying not to cry full out and if he had the clarity of mind to do so, he would have been trying desperately to convince himself that texting Sam was a very bad idea.

 

\---

 

Dean dreamed of Sam. Nothing concrete, more like abstract feelings, images from the past and wishes for a future he knew was lost to him. Dean imagined the warmth of Sam’s long-fingered hands on his shoulders, the comforting feeling of his brother’s body pressed against his side like when they used to share a bed, before they got too old. He heard the sounds of his brother’s voice echo through the nothingness saying words he couldn’t quite make out but that had a soothing, reassuring feel. He got a little lost when he heard Sam’s laugh, the one reserved for when he was laughing at something dumb Dean said or did, usually deliberately to coax out that beautiful sound. Dean couldn’t make out much - nothing really stuck in the whiskey-fueled darkness of his sleep - but more than once he watched his name fall from his brother’s pretty pink lips.

 

\---

 

Dean wasn’t _entirely_ sure if he was conscious. He must be coming to, just slowly. Everything was heavy and hazy and he felt more than a little disconnected from his body. That started to change when he shifted ever-so-slightly, his dehydrated muscles protesting at the movement and sending a sharp pain up his spine that rattled around his head and made him pinch his eyes closed more tightly. _A hangover, Jesus_. He hadn’t done that kind of damage in a while. His eyes were still closed but he relaxed them and tried to get his bearings without moving. He was shirtless and flat on his stomach, the sheets only just lighting on his lower back, and his face was on its side on a pillow and- Wait a minute… Dean tried to think back. He remembered - vaguely - standing at the motel room door and then not going in, which meant… He definitely remembered crawling into the back seat of the Impala and… that was it. He couldn’t dredge up anything else.  How did he get in a bed? Was this even his room? _What the hell?_

Dean resolved to deal with his body’s inevitable arguments and started with opening his eyes. It was bright in the motel room - his room, he noted - and the way the light fell on the wall he was facing told him it was late afternoon. After managing to get and keep both eyes open, Dean forced his arms under him, propping himself up so he could turn to look into the room, maybe find some answers.

What Dean saw was Sam, sitting up on the bed on the other side of the shared night table with his never-ending legs stretched out in front of him and a book open in his lap. It felt like he should somehow look different because their months apart had felt like a lifetime to Dean, but he didn’t. Sam hadn’t noticed Dean was awake yet, engrossed in whatever he was reading, his eyes skimming quickly from left to right under his shaggy hair that was falling forward with the downward tilt of his head, and he was absentmindedly worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. Dean had to blink to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.

“Sam?” His voice was strained and dry and raw; the sound of it was weak and rough.

Sam instantly closed his book and turned to look at Dean, a sly smile spreading on his lips.

“Hey, Dean,” he replied casually, like Dean was supposed to somehow already understand why he was here and how Dean got into his bed. “How you feelin’?”

Sam had put aside his book and slung his legs over the edge of the bed to properly face his brother, his hands resting on his knees. Dean groaned at him.

“Sam, how did I get- what are you _doing_ here?” Dean gave up on being any kind of upright and awkwardly rolled himself onto his back so he could still look over at Sam, just as soon as he was done massaging his aching temples.

“You really don’t remember?” Sam’s voice was quiet. Dean didn’t need to look at him to know the serious expression that was now on his brother’s face. “ _Jesus_ , Dean, were you trying to drink yourself to death?”

“No!” Dean snapped back, more angrily than he meant to. Then, calmer: “No, I- no, of course not.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment. Sam might’ve been waiting for further explanation but as far as Dean was concerned he was still waiting for the answers to his questions and he’d asked first so... He was going to wait Sam out. It didn’t take too long. Sam sighed when he gave in.

“Dean, you uh, well. You texted me last night.” Sam paused like he knew, which of course he did, that Dean would have a neutral-hiding-panic-stricken expression on his face as he struggled to remember what he must’ve sent. Dean couldn’t remember. Sam let him stew in it a minute before continuing. “It just said… I need you. It was almost three in the morning, Dean. I tried calling you and when you didn’t answer the third time… I pinged your cell phone and drove like hell, got here just little after sunup. Found you passed out and half-frozen in the backseat, and hauled your barely-conscious ass into the room. You’re welcome.”

Dean was staring at the ceiling as he listened. He tried to keep his breathing steady as he processed everything. He figured his text could’ve been worse, but still. _Sam_. He couldn’t get a hold of him so he drove all the way…? But… Dean thought…

Sam was watching Dean’s face intently, he could feel it. He was waiting for Dean to say something. Dean didn’t look over at his brother when he finally did.

“But… You’re still _here_ …” Dean’s voice was so soft he wasn’t sure Sam heard him, but then, he wasn’t sure he wanted him to. He wasn’t ready to talk about this, least of all when he was mostly-sober.

“Dean…” When Sam said his name it was a little incredulous. He sighed again and came to sit on the edge of Dean’s bed, forcing him to shimmy over to accommodate him, making sure Dean was looking at him when he next opened his mouth to speak. “I wasn’t going to just _leave_ you here.”

Dean didn’t trust himself to answer him. He didn’t want to fight with Sam, not now, when they were - impossibly - together, but he couldn’t help the thought that immediately swam to the surface. _You mean like you already left me_. It must have somehow been clear on his face though, because Sam’s drew tight and he looked almost pained.

“Dean, that-” Sam swallowed thickly; Dean tracked the heavy movement of his Adam’s apple as he tried not to look at Sam’s eyes. “ _Please_ , Dean.”

He said it in that way he knew always won over his brother; Dean took a deep breath and, giving in, sat himself up against the headboard, forcing himself to meet Sam’s eyes even though he knew they threatened to undo him.

“Dean, it wasn’t like that- I wanted away from Dad, and you were- I was- honestly, I-” Sam’s tongue swept over his upper lip as he looked up at the ceiling, obviously trying to keep it together. When his eyes found Dean’s again they were shimmering and glassy. _And beautiful_. “Leaving was a mistake…”

For a moment Dean didn’t breathe. It was the absolute last thing he expected to hear Sam say. A million things were racing through his mind and his heart echoed them in his chest but he didn’t let himself say anything. Sam wasn’t looking at him anymore but had dropped his eyes to where his hands were fidgeting in his lap.

“The classes are great, really. I love them; I do. And at first, having my own space - or at least, a room that was _mine_ and not some shitty motel - was great too, but… It’s so hard to get close to anyone, my whole life there feels kind of like a lie and then…” Dean watched as Sam breathed deeply and finally looked back at him through his lashes, which were dark and sticking together with quiet tears. “You’re not there. And- I thought I could do it. I thought I could be away from you and feel normal but- but I can’t. It’s all so fucked up but when I finally realized it, I figured it was too late. How was I supposed to come back? You heard what Dad said. I knew I had- that I need to be with you but… thought you were so mad you- you wouldn’t want anything to do with me.”

Dean was stunned. So many things were fighting to be heard in his head and his heart was thumping loud enough in his ears to damn near drown them all out. He wanted to wrap his arms around Sam like he used to, pull him up into his lap and hold him tightly, reassuring; he wanted to say how could he ever think he couldn’t come home, it didn’t matter what Dad said; he wanted to tell Sam how homeless he felt without him, that nothing was right if they weren’t together; he wanted to tell Sam that it was okay, he was fucked up, too - they’d be fucked up together. But nothing found the way to his lips. Sam hadn’t been able to keep looking at Dean long after he finished talking. His eyes had found his hands again and Dean was just staring, willing his mind to sort itself out and do something, fucking say something already.

Finally Dean snapped out of it, though barely. The conscious part of his brain was maybe still playing catch up and his body seemingly started without his express permission. Dean did the only thing that might somehow convey to Sam all the things he didn’t know how to say, tell him how messed up they were and that none of it mattered, and that the only home Dean knew was Sam: he kissed him.

He’d leaned forward on impulse and slid his hands up to cup Sam’s face, one of them edging his fingertips a little further into Sam’s hair, and then pressed his lips to his brother’s before he had a chance to react. Sam stilled and went rigid at Dean’s touch for just a moment, long enough for the thought to cross Dean’s mind that _just maybe_ he’d fucked things up past all repair, when his younger brother started to soften into him. Sam’s body went lax and he leaned into the kiss, parting his lips tentatively to invite Dean in, his hands coming up to palm at Dean’s chest, trapping his arms between them. Dean didn’t hesitate; he let his tongue trace Sam’s open lips before slipping inside, tilting his head for better access so he could gently explore and map out his brother’s mouth. Sam let a small, perfect sound loose from his throat and Dean swallowed it down eagerly. It made him lightheaded; he was _kissing_ Sam and, more mind blowing still, Sam was kissing him back.

After a few blissful moments, Dean pulled back and, tucking Sam’s face into the crook of his neck, he let his arms wrap around him and he held him close. He let his hands open and move up and down Sam’s back, comforting him just like he used to when Sam was small. Neither of them said anything for a while.

“Sam- Sammy,” Dean started. “I can’t be the reason you don’t have the life you want. If- if you want to do this university thing then… I’ll just- I’ll go with you. We’ll figure it out, okay? The hunting and the school thing- we’ll make it work.”

Dean took one hand and, slipping two fingers under Sam’s chin, eased his face upwards so he could look down into his brother’s bright hazel eyes.

“Dean, I-” Sam let out a small laugh and his dimples made an appearance. “I called the registrar this morning. All my stuff’s already in the Impala. I get it now, I do. The only life I want… is with you. You make everything _matter_. You make me matter, Dean.”

“Saaa-aaaam,” Dean dragged out his baby brother’s name, let it be long and full with everything Sam was doing to him. He hugged him a little more tightly. “You’re the only life I know, kiddo. I don’t know- not sure I like who I am without you. Even the Impala doesn’t feel right when you’re not in it.”

Sam let out a small breath as he looked up at Dean - his big, puppy eyes telling Dean how much he must’ve needed to hear that - and he smiled, a little disbelieving. He kissed at the corner of Dean’s mouth shyly then nestled back in against Dean’s chest, in Dean’s arms.

Dean sometimes still couldn’t believe how giant his little brother had become over the last two years, kept forgetting - and resenting - that he was now ‘the short one,’ but Sam seemed somehow impossibly small curled up as he was. Holding Sam to him now, Dean felt like all of his pieces which had been scattered to the wind when Sam left had been miraculously collected and put back together. Dean didn’t know about Dad or their family as a whole, but he was damn sure that Sam was the glue that held _him_ together. Holding Sam in his arms, Dean was home.

 

 


End file.
